


Learning Your Lines

by hoosierbitch



Series: Shakespeare!AU [2]
Category: SHAKESPEARE William - Works, White Collar
Genre: Breathplay, Bruises, Corsetry, Crossdressing, D/s, M/M, Marking, Shakespeare!AU, Theatre, Waxplay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-28
Updated: 2013-05-28
Packaged: 2017-12-13 07:05:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,738
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/821424
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hoosierbitch/pseuds/hoosierbitch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The show's over for everyone but Peter.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Learning Your Lines

**Author's Note:**

  * For [elrhiarhodan](https://archiveofourown.org/users/elrhiarhodan/gifts).



> I started this as a birthday present for **elrhiarhodan** , and luckily for me, it's late enough that I can also sneakily use it as a thank you for her generosity over this past weekend. (Seriously. She's like my fairy godmother.)  
>  **rabidchild67** helped beta & choreograph. Any remaining mistakes are all my fault.

"You were beautiful," Peter tells him, stepping into Neal’s private dressing room and drawing the curtain shut behind him.

"And dead. Why do I always have to die? I think Will's got a problem with women."

"You made the entire audience cry."

"Except for that one man. The cougher?"

"Right, the one up front? He was choking on peanuts. I watched him during some of the boring scenes."

"You should figure out some way to ban him from the grounds. And I still can't believe that you think the scenes with Iago are boring."

"He's a villain."

"It’s not that simple! Were you even watching the right play?"

The curtain's pulled back suddenly and Burbage's large, sweating face appears, a beaming smile creasing his make-up. "We're on our way to the Friar's Bellow to celebrate another successful opening. I assume you’ll be joining us?" Burbage frowns at Neal, who's still made up perfectly as Desdemona, his skirts spread gracefully around him as he sits on his chaise lounge. "Are you planning on coming dressed like that? Not that I'd mind, it’s quite a fetching look, but you never know what some of the other lads might get up to..."

Peter takes a look at Neal. He's sitting with perfect posture, thanks to the corset binding, and the candlelight is kind to his stage makeup, bringing out his lips and cheekbones and eyes. All Neal's done to undress so is to take off his wig. His bangs have fallen loosely over his forehead.

"He's not feeling well," Peter says, cutting off whatever Neal was planning to say. "I'll see to it that he gets home safely."

Burbage frowns and pushes his way into the dressing room. Peter, with a quick look at Neal (who's all of a sudden started swaying in his seat and fanning his face; if Peter didn't know better, he'd suspect the man of actually coming down with a fever), steps aside.

"You'll be all right by tomorrow, though. Right? You will. Do I need to worry? No. Peter? Should I be worried?"

"I'll be here," Neal says, quirking the corner of his mouth up at Burbage. The man has a special spot in Neal's heart, since he was the first of the King's Men to really accept Neal as one of their own. "As long as I can walk, I'll be on that stage. And if I can't walk, I'll crawl." Burbage pats a heavy hand on Neal's shoulder (Peter absolutely does _not_ feel jealous of the proprietary touch) and wishes them well before leaving.

Neal waits until the curtain stops swaying. "Is there a reason you don't want me to go out and celebrate?"

"Nothing official."

Neal, who still worries (like most of the best actors Peter's known) about his performance, his reputation, and his job security with every new show, relaxes slightly. "What is the unofficial reason?"

Peter glances out into the hallway, but it's empty. He makes his way to Neal, pulling him up from the chaise lounge, and places a hand on the side of Neal's face, tilting him in the candlelight. "You." Neal smiles coyly, and Peter tugs on his earlobe to make him frown. "Don't start to perform for me."

"Then why are you accosting me in costume?"

"I couldn't wait until we got home."

Neal had been extraordinary out on that stage. He'd made Desdemona the star of the play. Peter wanted to retitle it _The Tragedie of Desdemona_.

"May I help you undress?"

The only movement in the room belongs to the shadows cast by the flickering light dancing across Neal's face, creating a mystery where Peter knows there will only ever be _Yes_.

Neal extends one hand to him and Peter draws his glove off, one finger at a time, smoothing his hand down Neal's forearm and wrist as he goes. On the other hand, he pauses on the palm, thumbnail scraping over the familiar scar that marks Neal as a thief. He kisses it, traces the letter with his tongue. Neal's lost some sensation there, but other parts of his flesh have been sensitized; an unfair trade that Peter takes full advantage of. Neal's fingers tighten around his own.

Peter takes Neal’s shoes off one by one but leaves his hose on. When Neal hands him a damp cloth to wipe off his make-up, Peter refuses it.

"Just the dress," he says, "for now." Neal, enjoying the game, enjoying the attention, turns his back to Peter. The dress's bindings look more complex than they are to allow for quick-changes. A couple of quick tugs and the fabric loosens around Neal's thin frame, falling to pool at his feet.

"If you don't hang that up properly, Cruz will have me flogged," Neal warns him.

Peter kisses the smooth, unscarred skin of Neal's back, right above the line of the corset where he'll never let any damage be done. Neal steps out of the dress and Peter hangs it up, feeling clumsy with such delicate fabric. There are layers upon layers of undergarments that Peter painstakingly removes. Filmy layers of skirts to add volume, hoops and thin rods of willow to give it form. Neal waits patiently while Peter navigates his way through. (It helps Neal’s patience that Peter pauses every-so-often to revisit Neal's nipples, framed and lifted by the corset, and give them a pinch or a gentle bite.)

When he finally divests Neal of all garments other than the corset and hangs them up to Neal’s satisfaction, he takes a good look at Neal and loses his breath.

Neal in the candlelight: dark hair; brilliant, flashing eyes; a calculated tilt of his head to show his eyes off to their best advantage, long lashes creating the illusion of shyness. The corset pulled tight around his chest and ribs, cinching around his waist. Peter never tries to pretend that Neal's a woman, even when he's fully decked-out and onstage, but something about this contradiction—this unfamiliar combination—makes him want to touch every inch of Neal, to re-explore him, to know him.

He unties the stays that keep the corset bound, but his hands still unexpectedly when he starts to loosen them. Experimentally, he tugs them tighter.

"Hold on to the support beam," he says. His voice sounds rough, like a bad imitation of Burbage's Othello.

Neal hesitantly obeys.

At first it's easy. He takes a bit of slack out of the lines. Tugs the sides of the corset closer together. Then Neal exhales and Peter _pulls_. Neal's body rocks backwards and Peter thinks, _I could fuck him like this._ One hand on Neal's cock, one on his corset, stealing his breath and body at the same time. He holds the laces and they cut into his fingers. Neal rests his head on the wood and Peter, who feels like Iago, like a villain, tugs one more time before he ties it off.

"You can breathe?"

"Barely."

When Neal turns around his cheeks are flushed, visible even under the make-up.

"If I told you to take your stockings off, would you be able to?"

Neal bends experimentally and then shakes his head. "Can't move," he explains. "Can't breathe."

"Don't worry," Peter says, one hand resting over Neal's chest (over the fast beat of his heart). "I'll do it for you."

He turns Neal around before he gets on his knees. Neal groans, his hands immediately tangling in Peter's hair. "You're going to be the death of me," Neal says, as Peter pushes noses at the base of his cock.

"We all know how good you are at death scenes," Peter replies. “Now stay silent. We don't know who might still be here."

"I'm not the one who's doing all the talking," Neal counters. "If you’ll recall, you're—" His voice is cut off by a sharp gasp and then by the hand that he presses over his lips, keeping his moans contained. Peter, Neal's cock already in his mouth, smirks and flicks his tongue over the sensitive skin.

He keeps his eyes on Neal's face. His hands rest on Neal's thighs, above the garter-belt holding up his hose. He tugs them down with his fingers and slips them down Neal's calves. Neal, reclining against the support beam, lifts each foot only when Peter tells him to.

Then it's just Neal in his corset and make-up and Peter on his knees. Neal's rabbit-quick breath (which sounds all the more urgent for his attempts to keep himself quiet) hitches with every move that Peter makes. When he cups Neal's balls in his hands, tugging them hard, Neal writhes into his mouth and bites back a curse when the cage around his body makes itself known.

"It's hurting now," Neal pants. “The corset.” His hair is stuck to his forehead and sweat's making the dark kohl under his eyes smear like bruises, creating more dark secret shadows.

"Do you need me to loosen it?"

Neal takes a moment to catch his breath and then shakes his head. Peter's cock jumps, twitching painfully in his breeches.

"I want to see you," Peter murmurs, slowly getting back to his feet. His knees ache; he's not as young as he used to be. He rests for a moment, his hands on Neal's hips, gentle on their artificial curve. Neal tips his face up for a kiss and Peter backs away.

"What?"

"I want to see you," Peter says again. He picks up a candle from Neal's dresser and brings it closer to his face.

These are the features he knows. The corner of his strong jaw, the line of his lower lip, the flare of his nostrils. Peter angles the candle so that the reflection will catch on the sky-blue of Neal's eyes, a wild color trapped in the drab confines of the dressing room, and wax spills from the candle onto Neal's shoulder.

Neal gasps and then shudders when his lungs refuse to expand enough to accept the breath he wants. Peter—feeling intoxicated by the shadows and light, Neal's strength and obedience, his own daring and the secrets he keeps—tilts the candle again.

Wax spills down Neal's chest, across his pectoral muscle. Peter moves it slightly and a single drop lands on Neal's nipple.

"Down," Neal hisses, "put the candle _down_." Peter sets it back on the dresser so hastily he nearly sets the place on fire. It's scarcely out of his hand when Neal clutches Peter’s shirt in both hands and pulls him close, wrapping one leg around Peter's waist, rubbing their erections against each other. "Can't breathe," Neal says, his movements frantic and uncoordinated. "Burning, I want—Jesus, _Peter_."

"Don't bring Jesus into this," Peter says, feigning self-control that he doesn't truly feel. "Your actions are licentious," he warns, imitating The Globe's most fervent histrionic street preacher.

"If I'm going to Hell," Neal says, "it might as well be for sodomy as for acting."

Peter puts his hands on Neal's waist again and pulls him tight, crushing their bodies together, stopping Neal from achieving the climax he was already nearing. "Stand still. Let me get some oil."

"It's in the top dresser drawer," Neal tells him. "I always have some waiting for you on opening nights. I'd have had it out already, but I didn't expect you so soon."

"I couldn't wait," Peter says, taking out the small jar and pouring a small amount on his fingers. "Do you even know how amazing you were tonight?"

Neal, debauched and breathless, looks at him with wide eyes and shrugs. “Didn’t feel that different from any other night.”

Peter stalks towards him, feeling strangely unleashed, his eyes roving over Neal’s body. “I thought the applause would never stop.”

“You do realize they were applauding for all of us, not just me—”

Neal’s reclining against the support beam, his hips tilted forward. It’s easy for Peter to hitch one of Neal’s legs up against his side and slide a finger into Neal’s hole. No prep, no warning. He watches Neal writhe with the same detached analysis with which he watched Neal’s onstage performance. “They loved you. They admired you. They wanted you,” he murmurs, pressing his thumb against Neal’s perineum until Neal’s gasping and on his toes, unable to bear the pressure.

When he pulls his hand away Neal digs his fingers into the muscle of Peter’s shoulders. “Again,” Neal demands, voice high and strained ( _Oh, Desdemona_ ), “harder.”

Peter flips Neal around and fucks him with two fingers, stretching his hole as he watches Neal’s lungs strain against the bindings of his corset. “Tell me how you feel,” he says, suddenly curious, wondering if Neal feels as unmoored and liminal as Peter does.

“Feel like I’ll suffocate if you don’t get inside me,” Neal says, a hint of attitude in his voice. Peter twists his fingers, rubbing them against Neal’s flesh, against the pressure of his thumb, ratcheting Neal’s pleasure up to the point where he knows it could become pain.

“I know you want to,” Neal hisses. “You always want to fuck me after shows. Claim me, take me back, so just do it already—” Peter pauses. Runs his free hand down Neal’s side, over the ribs of his straining lungs and the strict metal ribs of the corset. “Don’t stop now,” Neal pleads. “You know I want you to do it.”

Peter rewards him with two fingers and the tease of a third, lifting Neal up on his toes again, and then Peter takes a step back. Smiles proprietarily at the mess he’s made of Neal. “Do you need me to loosen the corset? You know I’ll enjoy it just as much if I do.”

“No you wouldn’t,” Neal says, looking over his shoulder with a wicked, desperate smile. “And neither would I.”

Peter pours the oil over Neal’s hand and makes Neal prepare Peter’s cock. Tells Neal to spread his hole, to display himself. Peter’s spent the entire evening watching Neal as an audience member, as the producer of The Globe. Now he has Neal for a private performance, and he intends to take every advantage of it.

Neal groans when Peter breeches him. Peter stands still and tells Neal to impale himself. (He makes it sound like an order, but he doesn’t want to risk going faster than Neal wants.) As Neal slowly works himself onto Peter’s cock, swearing and gasping, one hand spreading himself open and the other clutching white-knuckled at the support beam, Peter mouths at the bruise on Neal’s shoulder.

It’s in the shape of Peter’s teeth. The lines of it are thick and blurred; dark at the center, fading into yellow before blending back into the pale white of Neal’s skin.

When he teases at it with his mouth Neal starts shaking.

“Are you going to come?” Peter asks, the words whispered into the brand of his ownership. He touches Neal’s cock, hard and dripping. “Going to spill for me?”

“Yes,” Neal moans.

“But not yet.” Peter takes a step backwards, pulling Neal with him, pressing his hips against Neal’s buttocks until the bottom curve of the corset digs into his own flesh. He turns them, then presses Neal’s hands against the top of the dresser. “Brace yourself.”

They are too loud. The dresser slams against the wall when Neal’s body—stretched between the onslaught of Peter’s body and the hunger for breath, for air—sways and starts to bend. But when Neal’s breathing slows down, so does Peter’s movement. He keeps Neal on the edge, breathless but not in danger, under Peter’s control and protection.

Neal’s tight, but when Peter digs his fingers into Neal’s hips, using them like handles, a convenient excuse for leverage, the pressure around his cock becomes almost painful. He kisses the mark on Neal’s shoulder and Neal stumbles forward; it’s only Peter’s strength that keeps them up.

“You’ll come for me,” Peter says, scraping his fingernails over Neal’s flesh to hear him whine, “but not until I want you to.”

“Just touch me,” Neal pleads, “I’m so close—”

“You’re not in charge now,” Peter reminds him. He surveys the room, then tells Neal that he needs to get a bed moved into his dressing room.

“There’s one onstage,” Neal says. “I got asphyxiated on it not an hour ago.”

“I’d hate to use it again for the same purpose,” Peter says. “I know how you hate routines.”

“I want to breathe,” Neal says quietly, twisting his head to the side so that Peter’s lips brush against his neck. “The show’s over. For everyone except for you.”

Unlacing the corset is even more erotic than tightening it had been. Neal’s been wearing it for hours, since before the performance began, and the marks it’s left behind arc like a map across his skin. Peter can clearly see where each metal rib had run vertically down Neal’s body. Wrinkles from creased fabric whorl like fingerprints over his flesh.

Across the line of his spine, in a perfect, symmetrical pattern, are the angled lines of the strings that Peter himself had tied.

He stretches Neal out on the chaise lounge that serves as the one piece of furniture in the dressing room, and runs his fingers, and then his tongue, over Neal’s skin. The marks are drawn on Neal like valleys, rivers and streams, paths that bring Peter’s mouth back to Neal’s spine, to his hips, to his lips, to kiss him and then bend again in order to lave his tongue over Neal’s body. Soon every inch of Neal that Peter had bound so cruelly has been soothed by Peter’s touch.

Neal fairly shimmers by the time Peter’s done. His make-up has worn off on the upholstery or has been wiped off with sweating hands. Neal’s gazing down at him with half-lidded eyes, a coy smile lighting up his features. It’s still hard to see him in the dim haze of the room.

Peter picks up the candle and asks, “May I?”

Neal crosses his arms above his head, pushing his chest out, nipples raised invitingly (the drops of red wax already there pulling and flaking on his skin). “Yes.”

Neal sounds like Othello, not Desdemona; but there is a wickedness inside of him that Peter knows is grey ( _Iago_ ).

One drop at first. It falls on the pale flesh of Neal’s belly, soft and vulnerable. Neal hisses when the wax spills, and Peter, watching Neal’s body tense, puts the candle down on the floor.

“What’s wrong?” Neal asks.

Peter moves to kneel between Neal’s thighs. He spreads them wider, lifts Neal’s hips off the chair, and slides his cock into Neal’s tight, inviting hole. Neal’s ankles dig into his lower back, but his arms stay stretched and crossed. _Good boy_. When Peter picks up the candle again, Neal grins at him.

The wax spills down Neal’s side; a thin trail flows down the small red path that the corset had dug into his flesh. Neal writhes again, and this time, buried inside of him, Peter’s cock is enveloped in the movement. He bends forward, overwhelmed, and wax splashes onto Neal’s chest faster than Peter had intended to pour it.

Red spills from Neal’s sternum across his stomach, creating a line of wax like blood. Before it can cool Peter scrapes a fingernail through it, destroying the graceful simplicity of its path.

The candle has almost burnt itself down to the holder by the time Peter’s satisfied.

Neal’s covered in wax. The red lines from the corset have begun to fade, but they’ve been joined now by wax and the pink, sensitive skin that Peter uncovers with his rough fingers, warm and fresh from the wax trying to mold itself to Neal’s body.

Neal’s stretched across Peter’s lap and the chaise in a graceless, boneless sprawl; he looks close to sleep. Peter pulls his cock out for the first time since he joined Neal on the chair and Neal gasps like he’s coming back to life.

Neal’s cock is still hard. Peter, with what little generosity had remained in him once Neal surrendered, has not touched it (not with his hands or mouth or lips, but not with the wax either).

With the tip of one finger, he traces the vein on the underside of Neal’s cock. He barely grazes it. Neal’s hips twitch and his cock jolts forward. Peter removes his hand and begins again. Over and over he draws the same delicate line. Neal’s shaking by the time Peter scrapes the fingernails of his free hand over Neal’s torso, breaking through patches of wax and pink pressure-lines from the corset. Neal screams, half a sound that he covers by twisting his head to the side, burying the cry in a cushion that Peter quickly takes away from him.

The horizontal lines of hardened wax are bisected now by the raw scrapes of Peter’s fingernails and the fading corset marks. Neal’s skin will chafe against his costume during his next few performances. (When the cage of someone else’s creation closes in on him, cotton and cruel metal, it will not be closer to his body than Peter’s hands have been.)

Peter pinches one of Neal’s nipples at the same time that his grasp on Neal’s cock changes from a tease to a stroke, his dry palm twisting a tight path around Neal’s shaft, from the base to the tip and then back down again, the passage eased only by sweat and the drops of precum that have formed on the tip of Neal’s cock.

Neal brings his hands down for the first time since he voluntarily raised them and covers his mouth. Peter leans forward so that he can hear every gasp, every moan, every sound that Neal makes that no audience but Peter will ever get to hear.

When Neal comes, semen joining the canvas that Peter has made of his skin, Peter bends forward, compressing Neal’s lungs again in order that he may find the familiar bruise on Neal’s shoulder—no wax there, no raised marks, nothing new, not yet—and bites down. Neal comes harder, one hand covering his mouth and the other pulling tight on Peter’s hair, keeping him pressed tight to the mark.

Seconds later Peter spills inside of him, brought over the edge by nothing more than the sounds Neal makes and his heels pressing urgently into Peter’s back, keeping him close.

  
*


End file.
